


The Critics Demand It (You Don't Understand It)

by apodiopsys



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: D/s themes, M/M, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apodiopsys/pseuds/apodiopsys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve wants and he can't quite explain it, but the intensity of the matters are surprising to the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Critics Demand It (You Don't Understand It)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [The Critics Demand It (You Don't Understand It)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090477) by [AJ9527](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ9527/pseuds/AJ9527), [apodiopsys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apodiopsys/pseuds/apodiopsys)



> based on art drawn by ~[dsmiler](http://dsmiler.deviantart.com/)
> 
> same universe as an as-of-yet unposted Tony/Steve d/s fic.

The thing about Tony is that he insists that he’s some sort of a _modern man_. He talks about how it’s _totally normal_ that he exfoliates and uses moisturizer and the occasional face mask; it’s the twenty first century and if Tony Stark can’t use moisturize without being called a ‘flaming homosexual’ (his words, not Steve’s) then he’ll be damned if there’s been any kind of progress since Steve was put on the ice.

The thing about Tony being a _modern man_ is that it’s exactly how he ended up here: here, being a bathtub probably big enough to fit a small baseball team with only him, Tony, and bubbles that smell faintly of either roses or chrysanthemums. Here, being post-mission, post-debriefing, letting his muscles that are sore - super serum or no super serum - soak in the hot water with Tony lying between his legs, back pressed up along his chest. 

He’s leaned up against the porcelain wall of the tub, one arm stretched leisurely out along the edge, the other draped easily over Tony’s shoulder, middle finger brushing slowly back and forth across the seam between his skin and the metal of the arc reactor. Steve starts drifting a little and he presses down a little too hard, scratching with his blunt nail and that makes Tony sit up, twisting his upper body around to look at him. 

Before he can even say anything, Steve is sitting upright and taking his jaw in one hand, and the way that he’s holding him, firm and soft all at the same time, tilting his head to one side and then the other, is enough to make Tony go still without even opening his mouth. His thumb brushes slowly along the facial hair on his chin, calluses on the pad of his finger catching on the coarse hairs. 

“It’s lopsided,” Steve says, voice quiet and subdued, meant only for Tony. He’s right, of course, a patch near the middle singed off when he took off the Iron Man face plate and some burning ashes fell from the tree he was standing under. Tony’s hand reaches up and touches where Steve’s fingers are still on his skin. 

“Yeah,” he says, and then, “I’ll have to shave it off since it’s not the kind of thing that can be rescued.” Tony says it in a way that’s clearly meant for later, more likely tomorrow morning, but Steve says instead:

“Can I do it for you?” his voice is rough in a way that he probably couldn’t explain but is all too familiar, and Tony’s eyes glaze over a little.

“Wait, what?” he blinks once - twice, looking a little caught off guard. He trusts Steve with a lot of things - with everything, almost: his life on missions, his coffee on early mornings and late nights, to know when to stop when Tony says go, but. _This._

“Let me do it,” Steve says. In a voice perceptively different, he says, “Anthony, let me.” 

“Yeah,” Tony agrees in a voice that sounds just a little hollow. Steve draws back, pushes Tony gently forward so he can ease himself out of the tub, muscle pains from just minutes ago completely forgotten or healed. He walks gingerly, careful not to slip on the tiled floor because getting a concussion hurts no matter how fast his ability to heal is. Tony watches him while he bends over in front of the cabinet underneath the sink, water rolling off of his upper chestbackshoulders in droplets and filmy bubbles clinging to his skin. 

“Stop staring,” Steve tells him, knowing without looking over his shoulder that Tony is staring at the ‘perfect, tight round globes’ that make his ass (again, his words, not Steves). 

“What, you don’t like me ogling your goodies?” Tony tosses back playfully, cheeks tinged pink. He goes abruptly silent when Steve balances a can of shaving cream and a razor on the ledge, stepping slowly back into the tub so he doesn’t slosh water unnecessarily, saying, “Not when you call it my _goodies._ ” 

Tony either doesn’t have anything to say to that or can’t say anything to it, but it doesn’t really matter because Steve is already settled and past it, moving on to shaking the can of shaving cream. He doesn’t have to shake it but he likes the way it feels, likes the sound that it makes when he presses down on the cap to squirt a palmful of cream. He cups his clean hand around the back of Tony’s neck, tugs him gently closer so he can spread the shaving cream over and across Tony’s neck and cheeks, dipping his hand under the warm water in the tub to rinse it off. 

The razor is heavy, cool and metallic in his hand and the weight of it in his hand reminds him a little of the straight edge razor that Bucky was so fond of. Steve presses his thumb gingerly against blades, testing them, and at the tiny drop of red that’s there and then isn’t, Tony is suddenly acutely aware of just how sharp it is, and just how fast his heart is beating behind the arc reactor. 

“Steve, please,” Tony half whispers, voice a little breathier and higher pitched than he’d like to admit. The super soldier cards his fingers through Tony’s wet hair, watching as his eyes fall to half mast. His tongue flicks out against his cracked lips; Steve’s eyes follow the movement and he smiles. 

“I know,” he says soothingly, fingers curving around his jaw bone, thumb brushing against his cheek. They tighten just slightly, tipping Tony’s face back. “Don’t worry.” His voice is firm in a familiar way, one that sends minute shivers rushing town Tony’s back.”

“But,” he swallows, suddenly feeling a little off kilter, like the world’s axis has just tilted, leaving everyone jarred and tripping over their feet. “Captain...” 

“Tony, don’t,” is his warning. “Trust me,” is his salvation. 

Steve has seen Tony in any number of positions, more than he can count on his fingers and toes combined. He’s done anything and everything that Tony wants; tries anything that catches his attention and deems worth trying, and through all of that, even with all of the faith that Tony has in him he’s never seen him like this, looking more vulnerable than he has any right to, with his head tilted back and the long line of his neck just stretch stretch str-etch-ing out. It makes his stomach do flips, thinking about just how much it is that Tony trusts him. 

Even though this isn’t them playing, not in as many words, just like when they play or do a scene, Steve closes his eyes momentarily and prays that if he breaks Tony he can put him back together. 

When he opens his eyes Tony is looking at him but he’s clearly a million miles away. Steve takes a short breath, lifts the razor. Besides that one time when he was fifteen and Bucky convinced him that it’d be hilarious if they shaved each other’s legs, he’s never shaved anyone else before. Tony flares his nostrils when the razor touches his cheek, but he doesn’t react and he keeps his movements slow and careful. 

Steve is only a little surprised at how steady his hands are; between them not speaking and the sound of their breaths, the silence is almost deafening. 

He leans in a little further, dragging the blades slowly over Tony’s skin, against the grain of his beard. Excellent at compartmentalization, only the smallest part of Steve is aware of Tony’s breath hot against his cheek, the way his chest is rising and falling in shallow breaths. He scrapes the razor down his cheek slowly, noticing the way the metal contrasts with his skin, cool silver against Tony’s cheek, flushed and warm from blood and steam. 

The water swishing as Steve rinses the blade is almost an unbearably loud noise, and he can feel Tony jerk under his fingertips. When he looks at him, making eye-contact, Tony barely nods,, gaze slipping again as he tips his head back so that Steve can get to his neck. 

Suddenly Steve can feel his pulse beating in his neck, feels a head rush similar to the ones he would get when he was a head and a half smaller and two hundred pounds lighter and got kicked in the stomach - there is so much faith in Tony’s eyes, and he’s having a minor epiphany as to just how many roles he’s playing in Tony’s life (captainleaderdominantboyfriendloverfriend) and somehow it doesn’t seem _fair._ He almost needs to take a second to collect himself, but the heaviness of the razor is anchoring him down and Tony has his neck bared like Steve couldn’t just press down or slash the razor across the soft skin of his throat. 

He uses the fingers of his other hand to turn Tony’s face left or right as he takes his other cheek and the other side of his neck. Steve can feel beads of sweat rolling down his shoulders to the dip in his lower back, feels the water around his legs where he’s kneeling going tepid. 

When he’s done, he thumbs Tony’s lower lip, the tips of his fingers touching his face in an almost-caress. The water is on the fringes of warm, milky with shaving foam and tiny hairs floating on the surface. Steve takes the rag that they used to wash the battle wounds, dipping it in the water and wringing it out, careful as he dabs at Tony’s face with it, cleaning away what he missed. 

“That was intense,” are the first words that Tony manages to say, voice dry. His eyes are lowered when he says it, eyelashes so long they’re practically dusting his cheeks. The look he gives Steve when they rise to meet his is so disarming that he almost needs to look away. “It was a little like... but not really,” 

Steve nods because he understands exactly what he means. “I know,” and then he starts to say, “You were really,” and then stops abruptly and swallows, because he doesn’t know what he wanted to say: _vulnerable? exposed? defenseless?_

“Turned on by that?” Tony finishes for him instead, arching an eyebrow at him. It’s a little unsettling, looking at him without his beard, but Steve laughs, kissing him on the mouth. 

“No more beard burn,” he says agreeably, and reaches under the water to unplug the bath.


End file.
